#6. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ
Sunday May 10, 12:03
IT TOOK Uncle Wagdy five days to get Ali into the orphanage, five days of fractious squabbling between himself and the Sisters of Mercy, between himself and his wife, between the six children… Ali retreated into himself and spent the hours between breakfast and bed-time sitting in a wicker chair on the balcony in his pyjamas watching people going to work, children going to and returning from school, police stopping and searching cars, the occasional US military patrol, daily life in the Sadr City slums. He only got up to visit the toilet and he did not go outside, not once in the week. When he left for the orphanage, Aunty Nour was unapologetic.
''It's best for you, Ali,'' she had said. ''You can go back to school and be looked after properly by professional carers in a nice house with other children like you.''
Uncle Wagdy had been a little more regretful. He had taken Fatima's pink Fulla bag to the hospital. As well as the amputation, the girl had lost her spleen, her spine was crooked and she was awaiting another transfusion. The doctor said she would never have children.
At the orphanage, Wagdy had been forced to plead with the walrus-shaped woman who ran the place, Sister Gihan, who wore a grey habit and headscarf and sported a coin-sized black-wire-sprouting mole on her chin.
''We're very crowded,'' she said. ''Do you know how many orphans there are in this city?''
''Please,'' Wagdy had begged. ''Please.''
Sister Gihan had revealed yellow-furred tombstone-teeth. ''Can you pay for his keep?''
''Don't you get money from the government?'' Wagdy countered.
Sister Gihan's chuckle was low and throaty. ''That is just to stay open. His parents must have had some savings. It would certainly ease his acceptance.''
So Uncle Wagdy had tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade the bank to release Hassan's savings account to him. As a minor, Ali could not sign for it. Also Hassan had not left a will. Uncle Wagdy would have to get a lawyer, which would cost more money than he had, and therefore, for the moment, Hassan's savings were inaccessible.
''You watch the money 'disappear' somewhere in the bank,'' Aunty Nour had said darkly. ''We'll never see a shekel.''
Finally, desperately, Uncle Wagdy had robbed the rent-money from his own biscuit jar and handed it over to Sister Gihan. Waving his nephew goodbye and watching the thick wooden door creak shut, he could not help feeling sad. Ali had barely smiled, had barely seemed to register what was happening to him. He hitched his Pokémon rucksack onto his shoulder and received his uncle's kiss stoically.
''Good luck,'' said Wagdy tearfully.
''And you,'' Ali replied, turning away.
Sister Gihan led Ali up a shabby flight of stairs to a low-ceilinged dormitory containing eight narrow iron-framed beds covered in scratchy-looking grey blankets and separated by cheap wooden lockers secured with small padlocks. The dormitory smelled of damp and boys, like a school gymnasium which has never been aired. Faded, dried-out paint flaked from the walls. Grey shorts, a grey T-shirt, black plimsolls, a washed-out grey towel and a bar of carbolic soap waited for him on the bed nearest the door.
''The rules are very simple.'' Sister Gihan sounded as though she were gargling broken glass. ''You will wake up at six and take a shower. Breakfast is at seven in the refectory. School is at eight. You will have lessons in Arabic, Mathematics, Calligraphic Writing, Algebra, French and Religion. There are prayers at midday and lunch is at one. After lunch, you will have a one hour nap. At three, you will do Physical Education. At four, you will learn a trade. You may choose from electrics, plumbing, carpentry and upholstery. At six you will pray again and give thanks for your miserable little life.'' The hairs on her mole quivered as she snorted. ''That's a joke, boy.'' Ali did not smile. ''Dinner is at seven. At eight you may relax. There is a television in the lounge on which you may watch religious programmes if you wish. You may also play ping-pong, chess or checkers. At nine, you will prepare for bed. You will wash your uniform, iron it and lay it out to dry for the morning. You will go to bed at nine-thirty. You may read The Qur'an if you wish. Lights out is at ten. You will go straight to sleep. There will be no horse-play, no talking and certainly none of your 'boy's things'.'' She looked physically ill at the thought. ''Do you understand?''
''When can I visit my sister?'' asked Ali.
Sister Gihan narrowed her eyes. ''If you are cheeky, you will be punished,'' she grated. ''This orphanage is run efficiently and effectively, like clockwork. We receive our funding because we are so efficient, and you will not jeopardise that. There are a hundred boys like you. We have little money and we need to teach you skills that will help you get a job when you leave us at fifteen. You may settle yourself in before lunch at two sharp in the refectory.''
Ali put his rucksack into the locker and changed into the grey uniform. It was stiff with starch and age. He wondered how many boys had worn it before him. He could not get the plimsolls on. His ankle was still too swollen. He decided to pad barefoot along the cold, hard tiles to the bathroom at the end of the passage. When he arrived, he wished he had not. The bathroom floor was rough unfinished concrete and the urinal a long, stainless steel trough with a steel piss-spattered ledge to stand on. Inside the half-dozen cubicles he saw Asian-style squat toilets, mere holes in the floor with stained, once-white foot-plates on either side. He saw lumps of shit on more than one foot-plate and wondered how anyone could miss the hole quite so badly. He also noticed there was no toilet paper. He would have to use his hand and a cupful of water.
He stared at himself in one of the scratched, pitted mirrors. His pale brown skin was grimy and his tawny eyes radiated misery. The usual fleck of gold in the pupil seemed dimmed. His short black hair, cut high off his wide, smooth forehead, felt like a stiff wire brush. His mouth turned down at the corners. He looked tired and defeated.
Just a week ago he had luxuriated in the bath at home before dressing to go to the market. So much had changed. He had changed. He had lost his entire world and been whirlwinded into something previously unimaginable.
Closing his eyes, he gripped the cold, hard edge of the wash-basin until he came to his senses. He was in some new Hell but there must be a reason behind it. There must be a reason why he had been spared the carnage. Allah had a purpose. Surely.
He thought of Fatima lying in her hospital bed, a cripple, unable to have children, at twelve years old. What future awaited her? Surely he had survived for her.
He opened his eyes and glared at himself. Her future was with him, Ali Hassan Al-Amin. He could not let go. He had to make it. For Fatima. Blinking, he dashed cold water over his face. He would find a way.
The refectory contained a dozen long wooden tables and, waiting on a dozen wooden benches, a hundred boys, from six to sixteen, dressed in identical grey shorts and T-shirts.
''Boys,'' cried Sister Gihan from a raised platform at the end of the room. ''Meet our newest resident, Master Ali Hassan.''
A few faces turned in his direction. Most did not.
''Be seated at Table Three,'' Sister Gihan gestured vaguely, ''And thank Allah for his infinite mercies that you, miserable wretch, may join us here today for this bountiful fare.''
Ali limped between benches muttering ''Table Three? Table Three? Table Three?'' until another boy seized his wrist and said ''Table Three.''
Although they squeezed up to make room, no-one spoke, no-one said hello, no-one welcomed him. In fact, they all avoided his eyes.
Lunch was a bowl of thin lentil broth followed by gluey clumps of rice on a battered tin plate with more lentils, fried onions and a brownish sauce, all eaten with a dented tin spoon.
''Any meat?'' Ali muttered.
''Meat is the Devil's food,'' whispered a skinny boy on his left. ''It makes us horny.''
The hulking boy on Ali's right laughed. ''Witty, Sayed, very witty.''
''Table Three!'' bellowed Sister Gihan. ''Silence while you eat!''
Ali sipped at the tin cup of water and forked the rice-mix into his mouth. ''What is this place? Some kind of prison?''
''Sure,'' said the skinny teenager, ''A prison for people nobody wants. Keeps us from making trouble on the streets or going back to our homes to get our stuff or going to the bank to get our parents' money.''
''Well said, Sayed,'' said the hulking boy again, ''Well said.''
''While she,'' Sayed jabbed his forkful of rice toward Sister Gihan who was tearing the flesh from a roasted chicken leg with her yellow-furred teeth, ''Tries to get her hands on it.''
''Hmm,'' Ali grunted, ''We'll see about that.''
''New boy!'' bawled Sister Gihan, ''Eat your lunch!''
Ali ate his lunch.
Physical Education was not what Ali had enjoyed in school. There was no basketball, no football, certainly no tennis, just physical jerks, star-jumps, press-ups and running-on-the-spot.
''I have a sprained ankle,'' he told the teacher, a massive, muscular tree-trunk with a vast, bushy moustache.
''What?'' yelled Mr Ala'a. ''What do you mean?'' His flat square face purpled furiously.
''I mean I can't do this,'' said Ali. ''My ankle's hurt and I have stitches in my foot.'' He touched his shoulder. ''I also have stitches in my shoulder. I was caught in a bomb, you know.''
''Sit over there, you great big girl!'' bawled Mr Ala'a. ''Sister Gihan will hear of this, you little mincing faggoty poof!''
Ali sat on a bench and watched Mr Ala'a bully the sweating boys through their routines with a finely honed combination of humiliation, homophobic tirades and cuffs to the ear. Sure enough, when it was time for Trade, Ali was summoned to Sister Gihan's office.
''We have taken you in,'' she said in a voice resembling a cement mixer churning pebbles, ''Even though we are overcrowded. All we ask is that you obey the rules.''
''I couldn't do the P.E.,'' said Ali crossly. ''My ankle and shoulder hurt.'' He rolled back his collar to show her the stitches.
''Well,'' Sister Gihan picked up a stout wooden ruler, ''Maybe your hands will out-hurt them.'' She smacked his palms, one sharp stroke on each. ''Now,'' she snarled, ''Obey the rules.''
The boy Ali had met at lunch, Sayed, was not sympathetic.
''Every new boy gets the Kiss of Gihan on his first day,'' he said. ''It's tradition, like an induction. Lets you know who's boss.''
''What's your story?'' asked Ali. ''Why the hell are you in this dump?''
They were playing checkers in recreation time. Dinner had been the same as lunch.
''My Dad was a policeman,'' shrugged Sayed. ''When Saddam fell, the mob got him. Hanged him from a tree 'cos he worked with the government. The Americans just watched.'' He jumped his counter three places. ''Ha. Got you.''
''What about your mother?''
''Ran off with an American soldier.'' Sayed gestured at the board. ''Your move.''
Ali stared at certain defeat. At least he was not ashamed of his parents. His father had been a good man who had done his best for his children, not lined his pockets at the expense of someone else's.
He moved a red counter, not really thinking, not really caring, as Sayed whooped and cleared the board. Sayed said his mother was a slut who sold her honour for dollars. Wincing, Ali told Sayed he shouldn't talk about his mother like that. Sayed simply snorted contemptuously and said 'he would learn'.
Sayed was fourteen, He had been in the home for three years. He said it was OK when you got used to it and if you didn't, well, then you disappeared in the dead of night. Simple as that. You conformed or you disappeared.
''Do many boys disappear?'' asked Ali, joining Sayed at the dormitory sink.
''Three last month,'' said Sayed, holding his T-shirt under the tap. ''No-one knows where they go. They just disappear.'' Smearing a little carbolic soap on to the itchy cotton, Sayed scrubbed the collar and armpits under the freezing cold running water. ''They say they go for 're-education', you know? Like in the old days?''
Ali scrubbed his own T-shirt then dragged off his shorts and scrubbed them too. He had heard of 're-education'. Under Saddam, it had meant torture and brainwashing. He pointed this out to Sayed who was wringing as much water as he could from the cheap cloth of his shorts.
''You think things have changed?'' said Sayed. ''Bollocks. Just because the Americans are here doesn't mean things have changed. It's just a different bunch of crooks in charge.''
Ali squeezed soapy water from his uniform and padded back to his bed in his underwear. He draped the grey clothes over the frame at the foot of the bed and scrambled under the grey, washed-out sheet.
Although his ankle and shoulder throbbed a little less as he turned on to his side, he still felt depressed. He was used to going to bed with his mother's light kiss, with his brothers arguing or discussing girls, with dreams of one day playing for Manchester United. Tonight he went to sleep surrounded by the snores, snorts and snuffles of his new room-mates. He slept badly. The noise in the dormitory was unbearable. His ankle hurt, his shoulder hurt, his stitches hurt, his palms hurt. Everything hurt. Somewhere in the next bed he heard Sayed mutter ''Don't take me. I've done nothing wrong.'' Ali turned on to his back and stared at the faded grey ceiling until six bells signalled the start of the next day. He was in for a shock. The shower was icy cold.
''What the hell is this?'' Ali gasped as the freezing water hit his chest.
''Drives out the Devil.'' Sayed's skinny body gyrated under the jet. ''You'll get used to it.''
''Bloody Hell,'' Ali cursed, shivering under the showerhead, hair doused in icy water.
''Stops you getting horny,'' gasped Sayed.
''Phew,'' gasped Ali, dancing uncomfortably in the spray.
''Soap?'' panted Sayed, holding out a rock-hard green bar.
''It's not exactly Lux, is it?'' Ali wrinkled his nose against the strong chemical smell.
''It's antiseptic, antibacterial or something.'' Sayed twisted again. ''Keep moving,'' he advised. ''Or you'll catch a cold.''
''Any shampoo?''
''Use. The. Soap.….'' Sayed's teeth started chattering. ''It k…k…kills…. lice or …. s…s…s…something like that….'' He twisted again. There was so little of him, thought Ali, as the cold penetrated his bones, that surely the water wouldn't even hit him.
''C…c…come on,'' chattered Sayed, ''Or you'll b…be l…l..late.''
For a boy used to hot water and freshly laundered clothes, this was a torture. He could not get the soap to lather. Worse, the towel was so thin it did not dry him properly so, when he got dressed, he was still so damp the shorts and T-shirt clung clammily to his skin and they were still damp from the makeshift laundry the night before anyway and this made him angry and because his ankle still hurt, he chose to wear his sandals rather than the regulation plimsolls. It turned out to be a very bad move.
Breakfast consisted of a spoonful of lentils, a scoop of watery hummus, half a piece of staling flat-bread and a glass of lukewarm tap-water.
''Lovely,'' grunted Sayed. ''Tuck in, Ali.''
They ate in silence but Ali now had a chance to appraise his table companions whilst Sister Gihan and hers demolished a pineapple, several mangoes, a number of omelettes and a vat of coffee.
Sayed was skinny and small. Ali had noticed in the shower how his ribs jabbed through the taut olive skin, stretched like a lampshade over a frame. He had a mop of curly black hair and deep brown eyes. He was nicknamed 'Mosquito', explained Salah, the fatter, slower, darker fifteen year old who sat on the right, '' 'Cos he makes a lot of noise and irritates the hell out of the Sisters.'' Salah kissed Sayed affectionately on the forehead.
The other boys at the table ranged from eleven year old 'Squirrel' Samir, all large eyes, larger teeth and rapid, pattering chatter, to fifteen year old 'Mental' Magdy, a hulking brute with a shaved scalp and a gigantic scar on the side of his neck who said nothing to anyone, ever.
''He's mad,'' Sayed told Ali, ''Stir-fry cuckoo-crazy.''
''Set fire
to his mother and beheaded his father,'' Samir said nervously, ''Then stuck a knife through his own throat. That's why he can't talk.''
''The bombing drove him insane,'' Salah explained, ''So they took him away, fried his brain and dumped him in here.''
Magdy stared at the hummus dripping off his bread.
''See?'' Samir hissed. ''Mad as a monkey.''
''You boys!'' bawled Sister Gihan. ''Quiet down there!''
They quietened down.
After breakfast, the boys rinsed the gunk off their tin plates under another running cold tap in the kitchen. Ali was standing behind Sayed, who was wiping his plate with a damp, mouldy cloth, when the sky fell in.
''Ali Hassan!'' screamed Mr Ala'a, veins bulging in his neck, ''Step out of line!''
Ali handed his plate to Sayed and did as he was told.
''You're out of uniform, boy!'' yelled Mr Ala'a. ''Those shoes are illegal!''
''What are these sandals?'' hissed Sister Gihan, scraping her gnarly fingers through Ali's thick hair so hard that he cried out sharply. ''Where are your plimsolls?''
''My foot is swollen,'' Ali explained, grimacing in discomfort as the old woman twisted her hand. ''I can't get them on. I have a bloody great bandage round my ankle. Look.'' He hopped on one foot as he showed her.
''Your foot is swollen. Your ankle is sprained. You have a bandage. You were in a bomb. You lost your parents. Diddums and boo-hoo.'' Sister Gihan pushed her face so close to his he could feel her spittle on his cheeks. The wires on her mole quivered angrily. ''Life's a bitch. Get used to it. You follow the rules or you will be sent for re-education.''
''The rules are stupid,'' Ali blurted, and realised he was even stupider when he heard Sayed, Salah and Samir stop breathing and saw Mr Ala'a grin viciously.
''Rules are rules!'' Sister Gihan's walrus-face seemed on the verge of explosion. ''Without rules there is no order. Without rules there is chaos. Wear the plimsolls or you will be punished, you pathetic little Mummy's boy!''
''I can't,'' said Ali crossly, ''I can't get them on, you stupid woman. My foot's swollen to twice its usual size.''
Sister Gihan growled like a dog with a rabbit in her teeth.
''Is that so?'' she snarled. ''Maybe you will change your mind after an hour in the Cupboard. Mr Ala'a, secure him!''
The P.E. teacher wrestled him to the floor, then half-dragged, half-carried him down the corridor to a small iron door in the wall. He shoved Ali through the opening, growling happily ''Two hours'' as he clanged the door shut.
Ali sat blinking on the cold stone floor. It was pitch-black inside the small cupboard. He could see nothing. Cautiously he reached out, moving his arm in a circle. The wall was an arm's length in front of his nose, half a length to his right, about half a length over his head. It was impossible to stand up, impossible to extend his legs. He would have to sit with his knees drawn up to his chest and sweat.
Where was the air coming from? He touched the ceiling and counted six holes drilled through it, like those you might punch through the cardboard lid of a shoebox pet-carrier. Nevertheless, it was still stuffy and smelled of stale sweat, stale urine and fear.
In the blackness, Ali began to panic.
What if there was something in here with him like a snake or a scorpion or a rat?
What if he should run out of air and suffocate, gasping and clawing at the rough stones that now closed him in?
What if a boy had died in here?
What if this was where the 'disappeared' had disappeared?
What if there were ghosts?
He shook himself and muttered ''Get a grip, you imbecile.''
In the past, Mohamed or Hussein would have battered Ala'a and set him free, but they were dead. No-one was coming. He was alone. Hugging his knees, he closed his eyes.
Time passed. The cupboard got hotter and stuffier. Trickles of sweat ran out of his hair and down his face. He felt damp patches under his arms and on his back. He needed to pee. He could feel his thigh muscles starting to cramp and massaged them with the heels of his hands. His bottom was numb and his back was beginning to ache.
''They want me to bang on the door,'' he thought, ''To beg and plead for release, to yell or cry, to piss in my pants. They want me to crack. Well, to Hell with them.''
Consciously he controlled his breathing, slow and deep, counting heartbeats, conserving air, counting the pulses of blood through his throbbing ankle. Occasionally he would recite verses from The Qur'an or hum his favourite Fairouz song 'Nasseem alayna'. The Beatles' song he had learned in Primary Six also wormed into his mind. It was strangely comforting.
''Yesterday,'' he sang softly, ''All my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks though they're here to stay, oh I believe in yesterday.''
He could not remember the rest.
Eventually the small iron door opened, flooding the cupboard with harshly dazzling light. Blinking again, Ali crawled out of the space on his hands and knees. Mr Ala'a towered over him.
''So,'' he growled, ''How did you like The Cupboard?''
''Fine.'' Drawing himself slowly upright, Ali blew beads of perspiration from his upper lip. ''At least it was warm in there.''
His hair was soaking wet. His grey shirt and shorts, darkened with sweat, clung to his skin. His muscles ached and his ankle and shoulder throbbed but he had made it, and he felt fantastic as Mr Ala'a escorted him back to Sister Gihan.
''So, boy.'' She spat out the word with venomous hatred, the thick mole-hairs quivering with indignation. ''You feel fine, do you? Maybe another two hours will break your pride.''
''I'd rather go to class,'' said Ali, ''Learn something useful, you know?''
''Put on your shoes.'' Sister Gihan threw them at him. They bounced off his chest.
''I'll try.'' Ali smiled sweetly. Let her think she'd won, he thought, buy some time.
He slipped his right foot into the black plimsoll then, trying not to wince or rip out the stitches, squeezed his injured left into the other.
''May I leave it unlaced?'' he asked.
Sister Gihan's eyes widened.
''Okay, tamam,'' he said, and tied the laces loosely. The plimsoll felt extremely tight but at least Sister Gihan seemed satisfied.
''Good,'' she murmured, ''Very good. Now go to Mathematics.''
Feeling the eyes of the others scorching his skin, he slipped into the seat beside Salah.
''All right?'' grunted the boy.
''Yeah.''
''Cupboard's rough.''
''Yeah.''
''Least you didn't disappear.''
''No.'' Ali looked at the equations scrawled on the board. Most of them were wrong but he understood he should not point this out. ''When do these boys disappear?'' he asked instead.
''In the night,'' Salah muttered. ''Someone comes for them, a man with black hair in a suit and sunglasses. He always wears sunglasses, even inside.''
''Hmm,'' Ali grunted. ''Who is he?''
''They call him The Benefactor,'' said Salah. ''Apparently he funds the orphanage.''
''And maybe he buys boys,'' said Ali, ''Troublesome boys.'' He did not really want to contemplate the reasons why. Slavery. Sex-slavery. Suicide-bombers. Anything was possible.
''The last one,'' Salah was saying, ''Yasser. He was a rebel, like you.''
Ali had never considered himself a rebel before. He was 'Ickle Ali, Hassan's weedy son. In his own school he had sat silently, eyes fixed on the teachers, not daring to look left or right for fear of incurring their anger and thus that of his father. Hassan had been so big, so strong. When he yelled, Ali wanted the earth to swallow him up. He had never questioned any adult. It was not appropriate. He looked down at his exercise book. He didn't want to be a rebel. No-one liked a rebel, not really. Rebels tended to end up dead, or in 're-education'.
''You wanna get out of here?'' Salah whispered. ''Me too. If we can work together, I know we can make it.''
''You boys shut up and do your work!'' bawled Mr Mohamed.
Shut up they did, but something exciting had begun.
Dead Boy Walking Page 7